


We aren't born to sink

by sahina



Series: The Pink Lagoon [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abusive Parents, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Poetry, Slow Burn, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, anger issues, body image issues, musicians au, nb! jon, no one is straight, no spooky stuff au, they're all in their twenties and everyone is alive (almost), you can pry the found family trope from my cold gay hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22680829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahina/pseuds/sahina
Summary: His eyes were closed, making the eyeshadow stand out all the more, and his rosy red lips were curled in the smallest of smiles. The poet in Martin has never thrived as much as the moment their eyes met.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Gerard Keay/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: The Pink Lagoon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811704
Comments: 66
Kudos: 275





	We aren't born to sink

Martin is new to the scene. He’s sure it’s painfully obvious with how he holds himself among the other patrons, with the way his body tenses like a coiled spring any time someone as much as looks his way. He finds he wishes it wasn’t like that though, that for just these few hours of his day he could relax into a person with an easy smile and loose shoulders. Inviting, his mind supplies. He sighs long and hard and hides himself behind his drink.

Despite his complaints, always directed at himself, he’s happy to have found the venue he’s currently occupying a corner of. It was early September, a week after his twentieth birthday, when he found himself wandering aimlessly through the streets of London. Weaving through alleyways at a brisk pace, trying to walk off the loneliness clawing at his throat. He hadn’t really payed attention to where he was going until he found himself in front of a dark wooden door with a bright neon sign saying 'The Pink Lagoon' _._ It certainly wasn’t his usual place, quite far from it, but looking in through the large windows on either side of the door the crowd had the energy of a night club to the backdrop of a small business pub. It was rather charming he thought, so he entered. The inside was cozy. The crowd was scattered, some sitting at the bar and others huddled in front of the small stage at the other side of the room. A woman was performing, swaying her hips to the music as she did. She had a lovely voice that was singing words of love and Martin found himself nodding along to it. What really caught his attention though was the person standing a little ways to the side of the stage, on her left.

He was wearing a flowing crimson dress that went down to his knees, chunky Doc Martens that glittered when the light hit them, and around his neck hung several necklaces at different lengths. Martin’s eyes caught on his fingers moving up and down the neck of the guitar he was playing, nails painted the same deep red as his dress. He had elegant hands, Martin noted, long fingers decorated with various rings. Dark hair pulled back in a messy bun on top of his head, a few locks fell loose and framed his face. His eyes were closed, making the eyeshadow stand out all the more, and his rosy red lips were curled in the smallest of smiles. The poet in Martin has never thrived as much as the moment their eyes met. _Eyes sharp like edges of a blade/ cutting into me/ beautiful and dulled/ not by me but by thy own serenade/_ Martin would later scribble into his notebook, but at the moment all he could let out was a breathy, “Oh,”

He knows how it sounds, finding his way back the night after night on the off chance of seeing someone again. Someone, he harshly reminds himself, who doesn’t even know his name and probably never will. It’s not all because of the mystery musician though, Martin has come to love the place. The atmosphere is great and while the drinks are a little too expensive for his comfort, he can’t say he’s found another place like it. When he’d first spotted the portrait of Marsha P. Johnson’s smiling face emerging from a wall of painted flowers behind her hanging over the bar he’d felt something swell in him. The walls were adorned with pieces of LGBTQ+ history, focusing on celebration of those who were and those who still are. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of looking at their faces.

He is pulled from his thoughts by the sounds of someone tapping on the microphone. His head snaps towards the sound and spots Tim, one of the bartenders who had seemingly taken pity upon Martin and always attempted to strike up conversation when he came up to order his drink. 

“Testing: one, two, three.” Tim says into it as he adjusts the stand to suit someone smaller than him. He sings a line. It earns a small applause and whistles from the people at the front to which he bows dramatically. “Okay, guys. Everything is place. The open stage begins at eight, so if anyone wants to play just tell me or Sasha over there,” a woman his age waves her hand from her place at the back. “and we’ll introduce ya!” with that he exits the stage, but not before bowing once more.

Martin finds himself wondering if they allow poetry readings or if it’s just for music, but he knows it’s a fruitless thought. He would never actually get up there and read his ridiculous poetry. He’d get laughed out of the venue, if he even could get the words to leave his mouth. Suppressing a grimace at the thought he distracts himself with the little umbrella that came with his drink. Twirling it between his forefinger and thumb, watching as the lights morph the paper. A body presses up against his side, leaning against the bar and murmuring something to Tim who nods. It takes Martin all of four seconds to place the face, the hand supporting his weight that almost brushes his arm, and when he does he bites back a gasp. It’s the person from the show almost a week ago. He’s not wearing the same outfit he had then, but it’s similar with how he’s chosen one colour as the theme for it. This time it’s black. He’s wearing a sheer black top, with a black tank top beneath, tucked into a black pencil skirt. It’s a great look on him and Martin tries not to think about how it kind of matches his own mostly black clothes.

“Alright.” Tim laughs “I’ll let you go on first, Jon, to warm up the crowd.” Jon swats at his arm, but Martin can see he’s holding back a smile himself.

Jon. _Jon_. Martin clenches his fists and pushes down the giddiness rising in his throat. Jon. It suits him, Martin thinks. The poet in his mind wants to curl his fingers around the name and place it in his chest to cherish forever. The moment breaks and Jon removes himself from Martin’s side to hang around the stage, but not before they lock eyes. In his mind, it lasts a little longer than necessary, and in his heart Jon’s cheeks colour along with his, but Jon quickly averts his eyes and takes off. Martin slumps a little into his seat.

Tim chuckles behind him. Martin gives him _a look_ and Tim actually winks at him. “Christ,” he mutters, bright red not fading any time soon from his cheeks. He slumps a little further and fishes his phone from his jean pocket with the intention to check the time but ends up scrolling his instagram feed instead. Tapping his thumb twice on the screen when a picture of a cat sleeping in a slipper appears he sees the heart pop up and his attention is drawn to the time. Upon realising it’s almost eight he moves to stand closer to the stage.

This time it’s Sasha who climbs onstage to announce that the open mic night is starting. “First one up, as always, is our very own Jonathan Sims. His singer is down with a cold so it’s just him tonight, but we’re gonna give him just as much love, right? Give it up, folks!” as she passes Jon she bumps her first against his shoulder playfully. Martin watches as his silver eyeliner shines in the light as Jon drapes the guitar strap over his head and shoulder. He leans in towards the microphone, nervously tapping his painted nails against the guitar as he does.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly. Martin’s illusion of a distant, mysterious musician cracks and his first thought is _uh oh_ because that is so much more endearing. “This is one of my favourites of Cohen, uh, ‘Suzanne’.” he takes a deep breath that is picked up by the microphone before his fingers start plucking at the strings. Martin’s father loved Leonard Cohen and he recognises the song after a few moments of the intro. He used to play this in the living room as he sang to his mother and Martin would watch, thinking love could be so beautiful. The memory tugs at his chest and he has to take a second to center himself so he closes his eyes.

“ _Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river,_

_You can hear the boats go by, you can spend the night forever,”_

It’s breathtaking. Jon has a beautiful voice and Martin is tempted to keep his eyes closed and just enjoy the sound of it, but he also wants to _see_. When he opens his eyes Jon’s meets them for a brief moment before looking elsewhere. His gaze flicks back to Martin’s a few times during the song and Martin tries to convince himself it’s a coincidence.

Jon plays through several songs, only stopping to mumble the name of what he’s playing. There’s a stillness to the crowd at the front and Martin gets the distinct impression most of the people there are regulars who’ve come to see him play. He wonders how many of them are friends showing up for support and how many are just fans.

“This one, I wrote with Georgie. The, er, singer. I promised I would play it tonight even if it doesn’t have proper name yet. We’re currently calling it ‘The Admiral’ after her cat despite not being about him.” he rolls his eyes as he says the last part. It earns a few laughs from the audience.

When he starts playing again, it’s a little faster than what he’s played previously, Martin notes as he watches Jon’s fingers chase intricate patterns. The words he sings are of lost love and ache and Martin feels them in his bones.

When he finishes the crowd erupts into cheers and he looks completely caught off guard. Martin kind of loves how awkward he is about it as he thanks them and walks off stage. 

Taking that as his cue to start heading home, he stops by the bar to leave his glass. Tim grins at him when he sees him. “You stayed later than usual today,” he remarks. “Jon’s pretty great, isn’t he?”

Martin sputters. “I, I guess?” he sighs and nervously glances over his shoulder as if he would find Jon standing there. He isn’t. “Yeah, I mean. He’s amazing.”

Tim’s expression softens. “You’ve got that right. Oh, and before I forget, we have open stage nights all days of the week if we don’t have anything booked. Jon shows up during Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes Saturdays too, but it usually clashes with his studying.” he takes the glass from Martin’s hold and turns to put it away, looking the picture of nonchalance. “In case you’re interested in going.”

Martin’s first thought is _I can’t make Mondays because of mum_ , and his second thought is _who studies on a Saturday?_ He thanks Tim and makes his leave. Outside, the air is chilly enough for him to stuff his hands in his pockets as he tries to bury his chin in his scarf. He sighs through his nose, watching the puff of white explode in front of him.

“It’s not even October and I’m already fed up with winter,” he mumbles to himself as he door closes behind him.

“It is freezing.” a voice agrees with him. He turns his head and spots Jon, curled in on himself with a cigarette hanging between his lips. Martin takes a moment to realise what’s happening, and when he does he notices that while Jon has a coat on he’s still wearing a just skirt with nothing on his legs. His inability to talk around his crushes is overridden by his rather aggressive tendencies to worry. Jon’s even shaking slightly, for god’s sake.

Martin’s mouth moves before the rest of him can catch up. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re outside with bare legs. You should take better care of yourself, especially if you know you’re going out for a smoke in this weather.” he says, watching helplessly as Jon raises his eyebrows in surprise, unable to stop himself. “And you’re not even wearing gloves! You should be careful with your hands if you want to keep playing guitar like that. Here.” Martin takes off his gloves and thrusts them towards Jon, who takes them hesitantly, not yet having shaken off his shock at Martin’s words. At this, Martin snaps back into himself, feeling for all the world like the biggest fool. Of course he can’t go around telling people how to act or take care of themselves. Jon is an adult just like he is. Thoroughly embarrassed, Martin stutters out a, “Sorry!” before turning around and briskly walking away, trying his hardest not to look like he’s fleeing.

He almost throws a glance behind him but ultimately decides against it. If he had, he would’ve noticed Jon’s expression of confusion melt into a smile.

* * *

Martin carries the embarrassment with him to work the next day. When his colleague, and the closest friend he has, asks about it Martin releases a long suffering sigh and retells the mortifying end of his outing the night before. 

“Oh my god, Gerry, you should have seen him. I probably ruined all my chances for life.” Martin groans, burying his face in his hands. Gerry pats him sympathetically on the back of his head.

“I’m sure you made an impression at least. Maybe he thought you were sweet?” he tries. Martin can tell he doesn’t believe it either.

“I can never return. I might even have to change my name and move to some village in Scotland or something... Someplace that has cows.”

“Oh, come on. We both know you’re not going through the legal proceedings of name changing again. Too much of a hassle to get a new passport. Just like, stop going by that ridiculous K as middle name- What does it even stand for anyway?- and get a new haircut. No one will know you.”

“Thank you for your support. I appreciate it.”

Gerry gives him another pat. “I know you do.”

The day passes rather quickly. There are few customers who find their way into Keay’s Books who don’t already know their way around it so there’s no need for too much customer interaction, which he is always happy with. Mary, Gerry’s mother who runs the place, is unsurprisingly out of town so it’s just the two of them keeping the shop in order. Gerry hates her entire business of buying and selling rare books on witchcraft, and makes it no secret. Martin doesn’t mind it, work is work and he rather enjoys book shops. Always has. It’s the wannabe poet in him, Gerry told him once, that romanticises book shops when they’re nothing more than glorified hoarding dumps. Martin had stuck out his tongue, but didn’t say anything further. He gets it, feeling bitter about it, when most Gerry’s upbringing consisted of travelling around to look for books before finally setting up the shop to sell the ones Mary herself didn’t want.

“I’ll go with you,” he says out of the blue as Martin finishes up counting the register. He makes a _hmm?_ sound to show that he’s listening. “To The Pink Lagoon, I’ll come with next time. If you want.”

“You sure?” he asks, glancing up at Gerry through his eyelashes. “I didn’t think it was your scene?” he continues, like he’s one to talk.

Gerry rolls his eyes. “Call it helping a friend, broadening my horizons, or whatever. Want me to come or not?”

Martin smiles at his hands, still working the register. “Sure. You free Tuesday?”

“I thought you said he didn’t play Tuesdays?”

“I did, but I don’t just go there for him, you know? Besides, I don’t think I can face him so soon anyways.” he laughs nervously.

“That’s fair.” Gerry shrugs. “It’s a date, then.”

* * *

When Tuesday finally arrives Martin is so anxious he almost calls it off. The only thing that’s preventing him from doing so is the subtle excitement in Gerry’s posture, in the way he moves and talks, when their plans are mentioned. If Martin wasn’t the sort of person that tried to notice such things, he probably wouldn’t have. But he did, so of course they’re going if Gerry wants to. Even if the thought makes Martin want to plan his move to Scotland in detail.

“Ready?” he asks when he sees Gerry exit the shop, locking it up behind him. 

“Yup. Was a bit unsure of what to wear though,” turning around, he nods at Martin and they start walking in the direction of The Pink Lagoon. 

“I’m sure you look great.” Martin says, looking him up and down. His long coat covers most of his outfit but Martin can see that he’s done his hair up, put on lipstick and chosen his least ripped jeans. All of it indicating he had put effort into his appearance. “The lipstick is nice. Never seen you wear purple before, it looks good.” Gerry brightens at this. His mind wanders to Jon, wearing makeup like art, and his cheeks flush a little. Shaking his head, as if it would keep his thoughts out now that they’ve gone there, he starts up a conversation about where in Scotland he should move to get the optimal cow experience.

Gerry sighs, clearly trying to hold back a smile, and tells him they could just go visit somewhere with cows closer to London if Martin wants to see some that badly. Martin would honestly love to and tells him as much. The conversation carries until they reach their destination.

It’s always slow on weekdays, so the people there are usually regulars who come for the company. Martin considers himself as one of them now, even if he’s yet to make any actual friends among the others. Gerry chooses a seat by the bar and takes off his coat, throwing it over a chair to claim it as his. Martin now knows why he’d been a bit insecure about what to wear. He’s sporting a crop top in mesh fabric, showcasing the slightly curved scars on his chest and a glinting navel piercing.

“I love your shirt,” Martin breaths out. He really does and he will not let the jealousy pressing at his mind win because he is thrilled for his friend.

Gerry looks sheepish. “Thanks, I wasn’t sure if it was too much? But looking around the place, I think you might be the odd one out instead of me,” he teases. Martin makes a show of sighing dramatically and shaking his head. He knows he’s a bit reserved with his turtleneck and khaki trousers, but he can’t ever see himself wearing a crop top.

“What would you like?” the bartender turns her attention on them. It’s Sasha, Martin’s glad to discover. He hasn’t had the chance to really talk to her, but Tim speaks highly of her. She only works there part-time, usually on weekends when it’s busier, but with Tim’s apparent absence it’s not strange to see her there. “Oh, hey, Martin. The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.” he can’t believe he has earned a _the usual._ Judging by the look Gerry gives him he can’t believe it either.

”What about you?” she turns to Gerry, hands already reaching for a glass to make Martin’s drink in.

“Non alcoholic cider, if you have it.”

“Sure. Apple or strawberry lime?”

“Strawberry lime, please.” Sasha nods with a “ _be right back”_ and sets out to fetch one from their little refrigerator. Gerry follows her with his eyes and Martin can tell the second he spots Marsha’s smiling face.

“I kind of love this place already.” he says approvingly.

* * *

They end up staying for a few hours, Gerry getting another non alcoholic cider and Martin getting his _usual,_ chatting with Sasha and each other. It turns out she’s in her second year studying history, LGBTQ+ history in particular she adds, pointing to the pins beneath the badge that carries her name and pronouns on it. A lesbian pride flag and a transgender one. Martin feels the same excitement upon seeing it that he felt when Gerry opened up to him about being transgender, the same feelings of belonging.

All in all it’s a good night. Martin almost doesn’t think about Jon.

When it strikes ten they decide to head home since they’ve got work the next day. They say their goodbyes to Sasha who waves back at them, telling them she hopes to see them in the weekend. Martin shoots back a “Maybe!” but he knows he will be back. He’s fairly confident Gerry will come too.

“Hey,” Gerry starts, bumping Martin’s shoulder with his own. “Can I crash at yours tonight? Mum got back an hour ago or so and I don’t feel like dealing with that right now.”

Martin softens a little. He knows exactly how that feels. “Sure. Wanna stop for clothes?”

“I think I still have my _Chewbacca_ t-shirt at yours?”

Martin shrugs. “No idea. You can always borrow one of my shirts if you want, though I imagine you’ll look more like you’re wearing a dress instead.” he snickers, picturing Gerry in his pastel blue shirt with the word _Lover_ on it. He receives another shoulder bump at this.

“Sounds great.” a pause, and then. “Thank you, Martin.”

He wants to say that he really doesn’t mind, that his apartment feels very lonely now that his mother’s moved into a home better equipped to help her, but he doesn’t want to bring the mood down so instead he says “I don’t mind.” and he means every bit of it.

* * *

The next time Martin meets Jon it’s not at The Pink Lagoon, but at a small coffee shop cleverly named The Coffee Spot. He passes it on his way to work every day, and being a bit early today he makes the decision to finally enter. He breathes deeply as he does, the smell of coffee strong in the air. It’s almost empty, save for a few customers scattered at the tables. Approaching the counter, carefully reading through the menu written in chalk to the side of it, he doesn’t notice the person standing behind it until he’s being spoken to.

“Hello! What would you like to order?” a cheery voice asks him. His eyes snap to the worker and he realises that it’s Georgie, the woman Jon plays with. He has only seen her once before but she has a very memorable voice and paired with her face it’s isn’t difficult to recognise her.

“Hi, uh,” he starts, already feeling his face heat up. She regards him patiently. “I’d like a large iced coffee mocha and a medium black coffee, please. To go.”

“Anything else?”

“Um, no th-” he is interrupted by the sound of something falling to the floor, followed by muted swearing.

“Oh, for the love of-” someone says, voice a little clearer. Martin’s stomach drops. “Georgie, where on _earth_ did you put your bag? I need those notes if I’m going to pass and I cannot for the life of me- oh.”

Appearing from the back room, Jon stops dead in his tracks upon noticing Martin, awkwardly fiddling with his wallet. Surprise visible in his face with hint of embarrassment at being heard most definitely knocking something over in his search.

Martin recognises him right away, but everything about him is so different he still takes a minute to process that it’s the same person from The Pink Lagoon. His hair is a mess, not the careful mess of a bun, but it looks like he hasn’t brushed it in a couple of days. On his nose rests too-large glasses, slipping slightly, with actual-to-god strings attached to them like a grandma, or a librarian, his mind supplies. He’s not wearing makeup and for the first time Martin can see the big dark circles underneath his eyes. He’s not wearing anything particular either, just a white button up tucked into grey slacks; Matin does note the pumps, which don't really fit with the rest but also kind of bring the outfit together.

Jon must notice Martin looking because he sheepishly averts his eyes and rubs his neck, an awkward tenseness to his jaw. Horrified, Martin turns back to Georgie who’s just watching it all go down, grinning.

“Hi.” he says lamely.

“Hey.” Martin says back in the same tone.

Georgie’s eyes dart between the two of them, neither meeting the others eyes. She claps her hands together. “Right. That’ll be 4,25£. Jon, take care of the payment, will you? I’ll go fetch my bag.” she turns to Martin. “That’ll be one iced coffee mocha and a black coffee, correct, err?”

A little confused, martin squints at her before he realises what she’s asking for. “Oh, Martin! My name’s Martin. And yeah, that’s correct.”

“Great, give me a minute and then I’ll make them for you.” she smiles and disappears into the room in the back.

Jon lets out a breath. “Right,” he mumbles and starts typing at the register. It’s an ancient thing. Martin can tell because the one at the book shop is just as ancient. He makes his payment in silence, looking at Jon through his eyelashes. He looks tired, but Martin can’t help but think he’s still very attractive. The raggedness of him makes him a little more real, he thinks. The image of the collected musician cracks a little more, the surface of it starting to shift and slide apart.

“I didn’t bring your gloves, sorry.”

Martin lets out a startled laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I assume you weren’t expecting to see me today. Besides, I’m the one who should be sorry. It was rude of me to lecture you like that.”

Jon waves him off, “It’s fine. I needed the reminder.” the register beeps at him and sprouts a receipt that he hands Martin without asking if he wants it. Their fingers brush as he hands it over and he swears Jon has the coldest hands he’s ever touched. He resists the urge to take them and rub warmth into them with his own. “They were really warm actually, your gloves. Where did you get them?”

“Hm? Oh, I knitted them myself.” Martin tries for casual, not wanting to show just how delighted the idea of Jon wearing this gloves and liking them made him.

“Oh god, now I feel even worse about not bringing them with me.” Jon scrubs a hand over his face, the motion pushing his glasses up into his hair. Smiling, because that is just adorable, Martin shakes his head.

“No, no. It’s fine. You can have them, if you want. I’ll just make myself new ones.”

“I couldn’t possibly-”

“I insist.” Martin interrupts, feeling bold. “There’s a new pattern I want to try out anyways. now I have an excuse to do so.” 

Jon eyes him warily. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Silence presses on. Martin is starting to wonder if Georgie will ever find her bag.

“Actually, ah, I was wondering,” Jon stammers out, nervously tapping his fingers against the counter. His nails are blue today, Martin notes. “If you’re going to The Pink Lagoon this Friday?”

Wiping his rapidly sweating hands on his jeans, Martin’s voice only quivers a little. “I was planning on going with my friend, yeah.” he doesn’t miss how Jon’s face lights up and his heart melts a little.

“Oh. good,” flustered, he continues. “I mean, okay. I’ll, er, be there too. Georgie and I are playing a set, but after that I’m free if you’d like to... uh...” he trails off. The tapping increases.

Martin is internally screaming and trying very hard to not let it show. “I’d love to.” he says in one breath. Jon gives him a shaky smile that he returns.

The timing of Georgie’s return is almost too perfect to be entirely coincidental, he thinks. Not that he minds though, not after _that_ had just happened.

“Here you are, Jon.” she hands him a notebook before gently ushering him away from her workspace. “Now please let me finish helping my customer.”

Jon rolls his eyes but compiles, going to sit down at one of the vacant tables.

Martin finds himself watching him as he waits for his coffee. He takes in all the details he can; the barest shadow of stubble showing, the little wrinkle between his eyebrows as he looks over the notes. He drinks it in and saves it for the poetry he’s already writing fragments of in his mind. Martin thinks he could write a thousand poems about Jon and it still wouldn’t be enough.

The coffee doesn’t take long and soon enough he’s walking out of The Coffee Spot with two cups of coffee and a date. Sipping his black coffee, he feels the giddiness rising in his throat again.

He can’t wait to tell Gerry.

* * *

As soon as he enters the shop, with thirteen minutes to spare, all thoughts of seeing Jon are dispelled from his mind when the first thing he sees is Gerry, leaning heavily against one of the shelves, one hand over his mouth and the other tangled in his hair. When their eyes meet, he looks exactly like the angry teenager Martin had first known him as, fury biting at whatever is in its path; but also the great sadness pushing behind it. Martin physically aches. He carefully puts the cups on the floor by the door before approaching, eyes not leaving the other’s. It reminds him of the countless stare-downs they’d participate in back in school, Gerry angry like nothing and everything hurts and Martin desperate to calm him and not beyond using force. Martin can tell that he doesn’t need to restrain him now, there’s no one there to hurt and Gerry isn’t like that anymore.

“What happened?” he asks, reaching out, slowly so that there’s room for refusal. His hand catches the one in his hair and tugs it free. His knuckles are raw, most likely from hitting a wall. Martin holds it with both of his hands.

Gerry finally breaks eye contact and closes his eyes, breathing unevenly. Martin just keeps holding his hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. They’re going to bruise, he thinks.

They stay like that for a little while. There are no tears. The sadness leaks out in his breathing instead, in the slight quiver of his hand as it comes to grasp Martin’s own.

“Sorry,” he croaks out. Inhale, hold and exhale. Martin can practically hear him repeating it in his head. “Mum’s sale didn’t go very well and,” inhale. Hold. Exhale. “She had some words to say about dad. Some of it was my fault, I shouldn’t talk back to her. I know this. I _know,_ I just get so messed up when she talks about dad.” inhale. Hold. Exhale. 

“I know, Gerry.“ Martin doesn’t stop rubbing his knuckles. The silence lingers as he slowly composes himself. Before he can apologise, as he’s prone to do after these vulnerable moments, Martin clears his throat. “Go back to mine. I’ll take care of business here, you’re in no fit state.”

“... What if she comes back?”

“I’ll make up some excuse for you. She never shows up when she knows I’m here anyway. Go, Gerry.” he removes his hands from Gerry’s to fish his keys from his pocket. “Here. I’ll close up after my shift.” nodding slowly, Gerry trades the keys to the shop for the ones to Martin’s apartment.

“I’m sor-”

“Can you get there yourself?” he asks, words gentle but there’s a finality to them. Gerry nods again. Martin makes a shooing motion with his hand. “I’ll see you after work, okay?”

“Okay.”

As he turns to leave, Martin can see the way his shoulder slump in relief. Before exiting the shop though he spots the coffees on the floor. Bending down to pick them up, he gives Martin a questioning look.

Laughing lightly, Martin takes his cup and takes a tentative sip. It’s lukewarm now, but that’s fine with him. “I got us some coffee on my way here. That’s yours, iced coffee mocha.”

Gerry’s eyes drift downward to his hands, where he’s cradling the cup, and his expression is one of quiet sorrow. There’s something like contentment there as well though, something that’s only been present in the last few years, and that’s enough for Martin to know that he’s going to be alright.

“Thanks, Martin.” it goes unsaid that he doesn’t just mean the coffee.

* * *

After that Gerry stays with Martin most of the time. It’s pretty great, he thinks, not just because of the company but because when Friday finally arrives he gets help picking out what to wear.

“Okay, final suggestion,” Gerry starts, springing up from Martin’s bed with an armful of clothes. His room is currently a mess with articles of clothing strewn across any surface that isn’t the floor. Martin had no idea he even owned this many clothes. “These paired with _this.”_ he throws a pair of rusty orange dungarees with white polka dots and a mustard yellow turtleneck in stretchy fabric at Martin, who catches them mostly with his face.

“Are you sure?” he says dubiously, tracing one of the dots with his finger.

“It’s very you. This way you can be a bit more noticeable while also staying true to your ridiculous love of turtlenecks and that ugly, ugly yellow shade you like.” ignoring Martin’s soft _hey_ Gerry crosses the room to lean against the dresser. “You know I’m telling the truth. I’ll even lend you some of my jewlery, I know the perfect necklace to complete your outfit with.”

At this Martin turns his doubtful eyes to Gerry who just waves him off. With nothing to lose he shrugs. “Might as well,” he mumbles. He does love the clothes he’s been handed, he just doesn’t wear them a lot. It’s a little too out there for him and anything that even remotely hugs his middle leaves him very insecure. 

That feeling only grows when he sees himself in the full length mirror in his hallway. The clothes look good, paired with his plum coloured boots and nails, but he doesn’t like how he can see the outline of his stomach.

“Hey, if you don’t feel comfortable you don’t have to wear it.” Gerry says, watching him as he looks at himself. “It definitely looks great on you, but there are other alternatives, you know.”

Martin doesn’t reply right away, taking another moment to eye himself. His curly hair is falling into his eyes, he has to get it cut again soon, but it only adds to the playfulness of the outfit; the silver necklace does too, picturing Yggdrasil with branches curling into a circle around itself. Admittedly, he loves the way the outfit makes him look when he’s not focusing on his middle, so he steels himself. He has to the first step out of his comfort zone sometime and why not make it tonight when he’ll be at the first place to make him feel truly comfortable with himself, when he’ll be seeing Jon who will undoubtedly be dressed up like usual.

“I think... I think I’ll keep this on, actually.”

The look Gerry gives him is bright. 

“Great!” he sets off towards his bag where he stores his clothes while staying over. “Now _I_ have to decide what to wear.”

* * *

They end up leaving a little before seven so there’s time to hang out before Georgie and Jon are up. Tim greets them as soon as they enter, Sasha following suit. Martin takes notice of Gerry’s slightly flustered state upon having Tim’s attention turned onto him. They end up sitting at the bar, as usual. Martin discreetly scans the room for any sign of Jon, or Georgie. Gerry gives him a knowing look that he pointedly ignores.

It’s not until it’s a quarter to eight he sees him entering. Keeping up with his running theme of coordinating his outfit with a single colour. Tonight’s is moss green in the form of a loose fitting jumpsuit and heels. He kind of loves this look. Georgie similarly sports a green shirt with rolled up sleeves but opting for dark jeans and sneakers as well.

“Hey guys!” Tim waves them over.

Gerry nudges him subtly and whispers, “Is that him?” Martin nods. “Kind of short, isn’t he?” he snorts and lightly pushes Gerry away.

“I can’t believe that’s the first thing you decide to comment on.”

Gerry opens his mouth to reply but closes it just as fast when he sees them approaching. Martin looks too and accidentally meets Jon’s eyes, already trained on him.

“Hi,” he says, breathless, when Jon stops before him.

“Hello,” Jon greets and claims the seat next to his. He breaks their eye contact to look down to his hands, Martin’s own gaze follows and spots the gloves he’d given to him. “How are you?” he raises his head to look at Martin again. 

It takes him a second to realise he’d been spoken to. “Oh, I’m fine! You?”

Jon nods, “Good. I’m doing good.” there’s a slightly loaded pause before Jon speaks again. “I like your outfit. I love that shade of yellow.” Martin makes a little _ha_ noise in his mind aimed at Gerry.

“Th-thanks. I like your outfit as well,” feeling bold he continues, “We kind of compliment each other, don’t you think? Uh, I mean, our clothes do.” flustered and kind of regretting opening his mouth, Martin bites his lip. Jon’s gaze drift downward before snapping back up to his eyes.

“Yeah, I suppose they do.” he smiles warmly. Martin is instantly relieved.

Someone clears their throat behind them, both turn to look. It’s Georgie, standing with arms crossed, looking impatient. “We’re on, Jon. Save your flirting for later.” ignoring Jon’s flustered sputtering, she turns to Martin and softens a little. “Hey, Martin.” he gives a little wave.

“Right.” Jon stands. He finally takes off his gloves and pockets them. “See you after?” he doesn’t quite meet Martin’s eyes, cheeks still coloured.

“Yeah.”

As soon as Jon is out of earshot Gerry turns to him. “Was that your gloves?”

Having left out that particular detail when he told him about their meeting, Martin gives him a sheepish tug of the mouth as a reply.

“Martin,” he sighs. “So what’s why I haven’t seen you wear them for the last few weeks! Christ, I can’t believe you gave them away.”

“She’s not going to use them anyhow, Gerry.” he doesn’t say how his mother never used any of the things he has made her, how pointless keeping them around would be. “I’ve been working on new ones anyway. Blue, this time.” he tacks on the last sentence for humour, but the look Gerry gives him tells him he hasn’t forgotten what comforting him had been like when he found the gloves he’d made her in the bin.

Waving him off, Martin pats at Gerry’s shoulder as he gets up. “I’m going to stand closer to the stage. You coming with?”

Hesitantly, Gerry glances at Tim, murmuring something to Sasha that makes her laugh quietly. “I think I’ll stay. Make sure no one takes our seats.”

“Sure. You do that.”

Gerry gives him a thumbs up as he makes his way over to the stage where Jon is plugging in his acoustic guitar. It doesn’t escape his notice that there’s only one microphone, positioned in front of Georgie.

* * *

Their set is great. Georgie really does have a lovely voice and she’s a lot better at talking to the audience than Jon was, but Martin finds himself a little disappointed that Jon doesn’t sing more than one song. It’s another original, with a proper name this time. It’s beautiful, and has Georgie playing the piano while Jon sings it like it’s a story, following someone through a rainy day, eager and aching for a lover returning home in the evening. Jon looks impossibly soft as he sings, hands curling around the microphone stand.

It ends and when Martin returns to his seat beside Gerry, awaiting Jon’s return, he’s engrossed in a conversation with one of the other patrons. After a few minutes Georgie returns with her arms slung around a woman Martin has seen around The Pink Lagoon before but doesn’t know the name of.

“You were great!” he smiles at her. She grins and thanks him. Leaning slightly to the side to look around her though, there’s no sign of Jon.

“If you’re looking for Jon, he’s outside taking a smoke. He has a habit of chain smoking after a show to get rid of the nerves.” the woman next to her scoffs, Georgie mumbles a “ _Be nice, Melanie.”_

“Right,” Martin says warily.

“He’ll be back in a little while, but you can go and keep him company, if you like.” she adds, completely reading his mind.

“... Right.” he repeats. “Be back later then,” he says to Gerry who just waves him off. Rolling his eyes, Martin puts on his jacket and makes for the entrance.

True to her word, Martin finds Jon right outside, leaning against the wall beside the large window with a cigarette in hand. There is already one put out under his foot. Warmth creeps into his chest when he sees Jon’s wearing one of the gloves on the hand that’s not holding the cigarette. He takes a slow drag, eyes unfocused and staring into the distance. Martin almost doesn’t want to make his presence known in case he’s interrupting. Jon hadn’t asked him to come outside after all, he’d just gone anyway.

Before he can make up his mind on whether he should stay or go back inside Jon takes notice of him. “Surprised to see you out here. Thought you were fed up with winter.”

A laugh is startled out of him. he wasn’t expecting to be teased, but it certainly isn’t unwelcome. “I still am, don’t worry. Just felt like getting some air.” he inches closer and comes to lean back against the wall next to Jon, careful to keep a little distance between them. “Er, Georgie said you be out here, ‘chain smoking’.”

Exhaling, a puff of smoke trails from his nose and mouth and Martin’s eyes are drawn downwards. “Of course she did,” he says. Martin quickly averts his eyes. “I mean, I guess I kind of do.” he shrugs.

The quiet of the street adds to the calm atmosphere and with the venue being tucked into an alleyway where people without purpose seldom wander it feels isolating. Like they’re the only ones out tonight. Martin finds himself relaxing against the wall, the slight buzz of the drinks he’s had earlier flowing through him. He almost never drinks enough to even reach the point of tipsiness, but he’d needed to unwind and it seems like the perfect night for it.

“You sing really well,” he finds himself saying, cutting into the cold air. Jon’s hand freezes half way to his lips.

“Oh, uh, thank you.” Jon says awkwardly, but his expression betrays his satisfaction.

Martin presses on. “I noticed you don’t sing a lot when the two of you play, why is that?”

He takes a moment to reply and Martin is almost convinced he’s somehow ruined the moment, but when he speaks it’s gentle. “The night you gave me your gloves was the first time I’d ever played live actually. I’ve always been terrified to perform in front of people even though I love playing music... Before I met Georgie I’d never even played outside of my room. She heard me playing by myself about six months ago and wanted to form a band, which we’re still kind of easing into. I mean, she’s doing great, but I still have problems singing in front of people. That’s why I kind of had to try it out by myself at least once, but she is still the lead singer so I’m just doing a few songs... I, uh, sorry. I’m ranting,” Jon mumbles and ducks his head.

Martin shakes his head. “No, don’t worry about it. I asked.” he says. Then, softer. “Is that why you play here so often?” Jon nods.

“Yeah, still trying to get used to an audience. I know, or at least know of, most of the people here so it’s kind of cheating, but every other week there are new people coming and going. I suppose it’s time to branch out soon though.” crushing the cigarette butt underneath is shoe Jon takes out a new one. He considers it a moment and Martin sees him glance at him, probably to gauge how cold he’s getting. Martin suppresses a shiver at the reminder of the chilly wind blowing through his coat, not wanting to force Jon inside just yet. He must take notice though because he places it behind his ear.

“Let's head inside. Your friend must be wondering where you are.” Martin is admittedly a little disappointed to have their time alone cut short, but his losing battle against the freezing November weather is making itself known.

“Sure.”

* * *

Inside, some other group have made their way onto the stage. A trio, playing what he thinks is a punk cover of a Neon Trees song. He finds himself tapping his fingers to the rhythm on his thigh nonetheless. Before they reach the others, Jon turns his head to the side, making it so walking a bit behind him Martin can see his face in profile. The venue isn’t very well lit but with the pink and purple lights flowing down the walls his face almost glows, catching on his cheeks and highlighting the glitter on them. Martin finds himself tracing the curve of his nose with his eyes, noting the bump his glasses would have rested on if they were appropriately sized (he thinks Jon might be wearing contacts when he’s performing, or that his sight is good enough without them) and the slight downwards tilt of the tip. He follows the line of his face, down his lips and chin, taking in every detail. Martin almost itches to get it down on paper in words, not as a poet but as someone who wants to remember this sight forever.

“Hey, Martin.” he says lowly and Martin is thrust back into the present. “I just wanted to say thanks for for coming.”

Martin feels an indescribable feeling bubble up in the back of his throat, pressing warm against the inside of his mouth. As a poet he thinks it’s his job to put feelings into words, but the only phrase that comes to mind is Keats’ “ _I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections.”_

“No problem, Jon. I’m happy to be here.” he says instead, softly, as if the words only belong to them.

* * *

They end up staying until one. Georgie and her girlfriend leave first, going to have a quiet night in as she put it, but they’re soon joined by another couple. Daisy and Basira, jon supplies, two good friends of his. Martin learns that most of them know each other from university, except for he and Tim. Tim and Jon grew up on the same street, but they didn’t really become friends until their teens. Jon, laughing, tells him that he was an annoyance and that the only one who would put up with him was Tim even though he could’ve befriended anyone else; then, quieter, he tells him that Tim’s brother had passed in an accident at sixteen and Tim blames himself for not watching out for him. (Martin does not miss the present tense.) He’d been an angry teenager after that, getting into fights and barrelling towards the wall of self destruction. Jon had just figured out that he was non-binary and his grandmother had not taken it well, and on top of it all he was outed in school as asexual the following year. In the end they only had each other to lean on and when they got old enough they left their town without looking back. Martin, a little beyond tipsy, is moved to tears and his thoughts keep wandering to his own past with Gerry. To how they’d been each other’s support system; and he thinks that maybe, with the same boiling anger, Tim and Gerry might find peace in each other.

The conversation takes a lighter turn after that and Martin tells him about attempting to learn guitar himself when he was younger but never going anywhere with it. Jon offers teaching him the basics and Martin, bashedly, says he’d like that. Gerry drifts back and forth between conversing with Daisy and Tim. Something blooms in his chest at catching his friend so happy in other people’s company, clearly remembering a time where that wasn’t the case.

When they wrap things up Martin is feeling fuzzy at the edges. Not quite drunk but not far from it, so he ends up leaning on Gerry for support. Jon is in a similar situation, if not actually drunk, but Sasha is quick to assure them that he lives close by and that either she or Tim will take him home when they’ve finished locking up.

It’s a good night, Martin thinks as he sinks into his bed. He hears Gerry sigh from his place on the sofa and thinks that he’s happy with where he’s ended up, despite everything.

* * *

Martin has become somewhat of a regular at The Coffee Spot, not just because of the chance of meeting Jon but because he’s really come to like Georgie. She works the same shifts with little variation so it’s easy to catch her. He tries to do so a few times a week when his own schedule lines up with hers. She’s really into the supernatural, he finds, and shares his love of spiders. In confidence she tells him Jon hates spiders and will either scream or go to attack at the sight of one, sometimes both. Martin really shouldn’t find it endearing, but he does.

On one of his free days he shows up at the café, or rather, drags himself to it. Too tired from staying up the night before but wanting an excuse to leave the house, he thinks it’s the best place to just _be._ He brings his notebook, a sleek black thing he got from Gerry when he turned twenty, a little over three months old and already half full with poetry. When he enters he’s immediately greeted by the soft sound of a guitar. Writing it off as the background music that’s sometimes put on, he approaches the counter. Georgie is there, taking the order of an old man. She smiles when she spots him. Martin gives a little wave and gets in line.

“Hey there,” she greets him when it’s his turn.

“Hello, Georgie. Just a black coffee, please,”

“Sure. One black coffee coming up!” They make small talk as she works. Mostly about her cat, which Martin will never tire of hearing about. He hasn’t met The Admiral yet but he already loves him. Georgie makes an appreciative noise when he tells her as much.

“You know,” she starts when she hands him the cup. A porcelain one, since he’s staying to drink it. “Jon’s in the back, if you want to say hello.”

“Oh, uhm, yeah. I’d like that,” he says, feeling his face heat up. Judging by the look she gives him she can tell. The last time he’d spoken to Jon was a few days ago, over the phone. They’d exchanged phone numbers the day after their first arranged meeting, both hungover in their own apartments. They’d texted quite a bit but never actually talked over the phone until Jon had called him out of the blue. Martin was slightly concerned something had happened upon seeing the caller ID, but when he picked up it turned out Jon was just bored in between classes and had wanted someone to talk to. It had initially been a little awkward, neither quite sure what to say, but soon enough the conversation flowed freely and when they’d finally hung up Martin realised the call had lasted almost an hour.

“Go on then,” she says, bringing him back from the memory. Thanking her, he makes his way around to the room behind the counter. Technically he’s not allowed to be there but Georgie’s cousin apparently owns the place so she has special privileges.

Only when he opens the door and spots Jon on the couch with a guitar in his arms does it click: the music he’d been hearing was Jon playing. He almost doesn’t want to interrupt, but he doesn’t want to leave either, so he steps inside with the intention of making as little sound as possible. Jon is leaning back into the couch with a guitar laid across his lap. He’s wearing his glasses again, strings and all, and through the lenses martin sees shimmering gold on his lids. He’s wearing a simple grey turtleneck and a pale blue midi skirt, Martin notes. He wonders if there’s an outfit Jon _can’t_ pull off.

“Hey, Martin,”Jon says upon seeing him enter. He doesn’t stop playing though, fingers plucking strings and sliding along the neck.

“Georgie said I’d find you here… Mind if I stay for a bit?” Martin wrings his hands, more out of habit than actual anxiety. “I’ll be quiet.” he adds.

“That’s fine. There’s no need to be quiet though, I’m just trying out some stuff.”

“Alright…”

Unsure of what to do with himself, Martin sits on the other side of the small table in front of him. Curling up on the soft carpet he pulls out his notebook and gets to work on the idea he’d been playing with yesterday. 

“You can sit here if you’d like, I’ll move my stuff.” Jon says, hands already reaching for the papers and books on the seat next to him. Martin shakes his head.

“It’s no problem. You look like you’re using the space so I’ll just be here.” he waves him off. Besides, it’s not a very wide couch and Martin doesn’t want to take up too much space and have Jon move to the floor instead. That would just be plain rude. “This carpet is like, really soft anyway.”

Jon narrows his eyes, but lets it go. Truthfully, it’s a very nice carpet and Martin really doesn’t mind sitting on it. Silence settles naturally after that, each of them working on their own thing. Martin scribbles whatever comes to mind, twisting phrases and words into something else while Jon continues his plucking, stopping occasionally to write something down. Martin thinks he sees doodles of guitars with arrows pointing to various strings. It’s rather endearing.

Georgie comes in when it’s slow, taking a seat next to Martin and chats with him about anything and everything. She even offers to switch out his empty cup for a full one and when he reaches for his wallet she just puts her hand up and fetches him another.

“Bless your heart, Georgie Barker.” he mumbles into his fresh cup of coffee. She nods sagely, grinning at them both before disappearing back into the front.

Deciding to take a break from writing he folds his arms on top of the table and rests his head on them, watching Jon through his eyelashes as he plays. He doesn’t recognise the tune but finds himself humming along. A few moments pass like this, Martin enjoying the music and Jon plucking at his guitar, and he lets his eyes slip close. For for a little while, he tells himself.

He’s vaguely aware that there’s no music anymore but it really doesn’t register until he feels someone draping something over his shoulders. “Mhm,” he curls in further into himself. About to fall back asleep, he hears rustling and then softly murmured words.

“We aren’t born to sink/ we float, but is that really enough/ When we first learn to swim/ Is for those who came before us?” when Martin finally makes the connection that it’s _his poetry_ that’s being read he shoots straight up, just barely managing not to knock into Jon’s chin. 

“Oh my god, Jon, why are you reading that?” he says in one breath, turning to look at Jon who’s stumbled back a few steps. Glasses crooked and eyes wide he has the look of a deer caught in headlights.

“I, uh, I was curious about what you were writing and I just,” Jon averts his eyes, clearly embarrassed. “I wanted to see. Ah…” he trails off.

Martin, feeling a little bad about startling him but even more so about Jon reading his rubbish poetry, sighs deeply. He resists the urge to bury his face in his hands and settles with pressing one against the lower half of his face, eyes still trained on Jon who clears his throat. 

“Are you a lyricist?” he asks bluntly, still not meeting his eyes.

Taken aback, Martin lets out a muffled “No?” that sounds more like a question than an answer.

“Then, what’s that?” he gestures to the notebook. Martin takes a second before he laughs nervously.

“That’s just a poem I’ve been working on.”

Jon finally looks at Martin, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh, really?”

“.. Uh, yeah. Is it really that hard to believe I write poetry?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant, sorry. It’s just, it doesn’t look like it? Isn’t poetry supposed to be spaced out differently?”

Martin actually laughs at that. “No, it’s not. At least not this. I just had this line stuck in my head and I wanted to do something with it, but I didn’t know what so I just tried out this stream of consciousness type of thing to see if something stuck. I guess it did so I kept writing it.” he rubs his neck sheepishly. Jon just keeps staring and he swears he sees cogs turning, what for he doesn't know. Without a word Jon goes and picks up his guitar, bringing it with him as he sits next to Martin. Reaching for the notebook, he gives Martin a questioning look.

“Can I try something?”

Confusion taking over his embarrassment he simply nods and watches as Jon settles the notebook in front of him. He hums something and starts playing the tune from earlier. Martin gasps softly when he realises what is about to happen. Jon plays through the same melody a few times before singing the words on the page. He has to repeat sentences once or twice, changing a word or trying a different chord to make it fit with the music, but otherwise it works. The poetry goes well with the slow, almost sorrowful tune. When he finishes silence falls over the room. Jon lifts his eyes away from the notebook to gauge Martin’s reaction and finds that he’s close to tears.

“Oh, Martin…”

“Sorry,” he says, shutting his eyes tightly. “I never thought I could write something so beautiful.” he clutches the fabric that’s still laying across his shoulders and comes to the realisation that it’s Jon’s coat. The navy blue one he’d worn without anything on his legs that night months ago. Taking a few deep breaths, he opens his eyes again and finds Jon sitting a lot closer to him now. Face twisted in worry and hands hovering over Martin’s arms, unsure. Martin just shakes his head, pulling the coat closer around himself. While he desperately wants a hug, that’s not something he can force on Jon who already looks so awkward. Jon sits back on his heels, hands falling limply to his sides. The worry doesn’t fade though. Martin can’t look him in the face because of it.

Before he can cut into himself about how stupidly he’s acting, Jon speaks up. “I’ve never been good with words. Instead I’m trying to convey my thoughts and feelings with the music I compose, or the words others write for me. Georgie’s constantly been the one to put words to my songs. I love her lyrics, they’re all very her, and that’s the best part. Coming together to make something that expresses us both. That’s why I… I like what you’ve written too. It’s not a conventional lyric. It sounds a lot like poetry, but it also sounds a lot like you and I…” he bites his lip, hunching in a little on himself. “I’m sorry if I’m being a bit straightforward, but can I sing your poetry?”

It’s not an intimate question by any means. It’s just Jon asking him if he can use his poetry as lyrics, but the way he asks it, eyes downcast, cheeks tinted dark; said with a low voice, almost whispered, it feels like a promise to Martin.

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat that’s blocking all the words he wants to say, the words of gratitude, of happiness and of love, but doesn’t manage to so instead he nods. It’s a little frantic, but before he has the time to be embarrassed he hears Jon exhale. A breathy laugh. A smile finds its way onto Martin’s own face.

“Thank you,” he says and hopes it conveys the words he cannot yet say. Maybe he’ll write them down to be used as lyrics one day, he thinks. Their eyes meet and Martin’s breath hitches. He releases his steel hold on the coat and slowly holds his hand out towards Jon. He’s not sure what he’s doing with it, but Jon catches his hand with his own like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He breaks eye contact to stare at their linked hands. Slowly, Jon brings it up to his face and places it on his cheek, hand still covering Martin’s. It’s an intimate gesture and as Martin flexes his fingers, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone, Jon’s eyes flutter shut. 

Martin finds himself leaning in, placing his other hand on the other side of Jon’s face so that he’s cradling it. The hand that’s not holding Martin’s holds his wrist, fingers curling around it like he’s trying to find Martin’s pulse. Maybe he is, Martin muses, because he’s fairly certain he’s stopped breathing.

“Martin,” Jon hums. “I want-”

His words are interrupted by the door swinging open. Georgie enters with her girlfriend in tow as Jon and Martin jump apart.

“My shift is almost over so we just have to wait for Michael to- Oh, good lord.” she stops as soon as she sees them. They’re no longer touching but they’re sitting close enough for their knees to brush and their matching horrified faces are tells of what had been, or was going to, happen. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, sorry.” she says, a little flat but she does look genuinely apologetic. Melanie snickers behind her. Georgie swats at her.

“Serves them right,”

“Melanie _,”_ Georgie’s tone of voice is warning, but she’s looking a little smug herself so the effect is lost. Martin feels like he’s missing something. 

“Right, sorry,” Melanie says, not looking sorry in the least. Jon gives her an unimpressed look. Martin rolls his eyes at them. He starts to get up and as the weight on his shoulders shift with the movement Jon’s coat comes back to mind. He shrugs it off and hands it to Jon who’s still on the floor. Martin’s hands are suddenly very cold. He decides to ignore the sensation, along with the heat in his face. He reaches for his phone, lying downturned on the table and upon reading the time he pales.

“Shit,” he mumbles, receiving three questioning looks. Quickly, he begins to gather his stuff. “Sorry, I have to go. I have an, uh, appointment to get to in about fifteen minutes and the ride there is nearly twenty.”

“Oh, okay.” Georgie straightens out, taking Melanie’s arm and removing them both from the doorway so Martin can pass them. “Well, then, see you!”

“Yeah, bye guys!” he throws one last look over his shoulder and sees Jon holding out his notebook for him to take. Martin holds up a hand. “You know what, you can hold onto that. I’ve got a few ones there I really like so feel free to, ah, do your thing.”

He can’t believe he’s saying this, in front of others as well, but something about being in a hurry and not being able to overthink it makes him bold. He could take it back, tell Jon he’ll text him the ones he likes, but that option is immediately removed upon seeing the softness of Jon’s expression; the way he holds his notebook close to his chest, like it’s something precious. The words _it sounds like you_ echoes in his mind and he pushes down the warmth that flows through him. His mum’s waiting, he’ll have to save swooning until he’s already on his way.

“Thank you, Martin.” he says, eyes intent and crinkled at the edges. “Talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” he says, breathless, and turns to leave. He doesn’t miss the shared look between the two women.

He certainly doesn’t miss the voice of Georgie commanding Jon to tell them everything through the door. Chuckling, he leaves The Coffee Spot behind _._

* * *

When he gets to his mother she’s sleeping. The staff tell him she’s been doing better lately, which makes his heart a little lighter even if she still won’t look him in the face when she wakes.

* * *

Slowly but surely, most of Gerry’s smaller possessions have been moved to Martin’s apartment. It’s gotten to the point where Martin has started to take him into consideration when grocery shopping, so when he brings it up it doesn’t come as a surprise.

They’re having dinner in front of the TV, watching a rerun of some sitcom neither follow but is entertaining enough, when Gerry puts the half-finished plate on the table and turns to face Martin. He’s quiet for a moment, clearly considering how to say something, so Martin puts aside his own plate to redirect his own focus to him.

“As you know, I’ve been staying here more often than not, lately.”

“Surprisingly, that has come to my attention, yes,” Martin says, smiling when Gerry rolls his eyes at him. He’s glad to see some of the tension seep out of him at the comment and marks it as a win.

“Right. Well, I’ve been thinking and there are some things I’d like to change. I’ve been meaning to, for a while now, but didn’t really feel ready to until now. So, uhm, what I wanted to ask you...” Gerry trails off, looking anywhere that isn’t his face. Martin wants to reach out, to place a hand on his shoulder, but decides against it. Instead, he nods encouragingly. Gerry hesitantly meets his eyes and Martin can see him repeating their mantra in his head. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. “Alright. I wanted to ask you if I could move in with you? It’s just for a while, and since you’ve let me stay for so long I figured you’d be cool with it? Uh, obviously you can say no and I’ll wait to move out until I’ve found an apartment, that’s no issue. Mum-”

“I’ll have another key made.” Martin interrupts his ranting. Gerry slumps back, relieved. Martin doesn’t miss the unshed tears in his eyes. “Although, I feel kind of bad having you sleep on the sofa for so long. Your back’s going to give out soon enough.”

Gerry smacks him lightly on the arm. “I’m only what, three years older than you? My back is fine.” he straightens to get his plate from the table, joints popping audibly. Neither say a word about it until Martin lets out a soft snort. “Oh, hush.”

They resume their dinner and when Martin starts to get up to collect their dishes he’s lightly pushed back by Gerry, who gives him a _look._ “I’ll get them.” he says with finality. 

Martin huffs and watches as he gathers their plates and glasses, noting a certain tension to his movements. “Hey, is there something else you wanna talk about?” he asks, raising an eyebrow when Gerry freezes for a second.

Sighing, he makes his way into the kitchen. Martin turns around so he’s still facing him from the couch. His apartment is small enough to be within sight of each other at all times except when behind doors, Martin admittedly finds it reassuring. “Actually, there is something. I wanted to wait to tell you so I wouldn’t have to spring too much on you tonight,” Martin raises an eyebrow at that. Gerry holds his hands up. “I didn’t know asking to move in would go this well, okay? Not that i doubt you, I just didn’t want to bring down the mood with two life changing news.”

“Aren’t you being a little dramatic? I mean, you’re kind of living here already,”

Gerry shrugs, bending down to place their plates in the dishwasher. “Maybe, but you haven’t heard all of it yet.” he pauses, briefly, and even from this distance Martin can see the uncertainty in his expression. “I’m quitting my job at the book shop, and when I leave I honestly can’t imagine mum letting you stay either. She’ll probably close shop or take over herself. I don’t think she knows anyone else to hire that isn’t through me.”

“Oh,” Martin is taken aback. He’d known Gerry was going to quit at some point, he just hadn’t expected it to happen right now. It did make sense, thinking about it, though. “I… see. I mean, I get it. I really do... Do you know when you’re quitting?”

“Hmm, I’m thinking very soon. As soon as I find another job, but I’ll wait until you’ve found something as well.”

“Thanks, Gerry, really. You don’t have to take me in consideration, though. I’m sort of looking as well?” Gerry shoots him a questioning look. Martin rubs his neck sheepishly. “No offense, but Keay’s Books doesn’t pay too well and mum’s care expenses have increased so I’ve been, uh, passively searching.”

Gerry’s expression softens and he returns to the couch, flopping down so that his legs are propped up on Martin’s lap. Martin lets him and rests his arms on his shins. “Alright. guess it’s settled then.” he smiles.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Martin returns it.

A part of him is anxious, scared of the changes that will inevitably take place, but a larger part- the one that’s been growing ever since he set foot in The Pink Lagoon- is excited to see what’s coming. He glances at Gerry and although he might be projecting, he’s fairly certain he sees the same sort of excitement in his face.

* * *

It’s nearly two in the morning when Martin gets a text from Jon asking if he’s awake. He is, unfortunately, being kept up by his buzzing mind, and is thankful for the distraction. It only takes a moment for his phone to ring after Martin’s reply. He’s quick to answer, not wanting his ringtone to wake Gerry even if there is a door between them. 

“Why are you even up this late?,” he murmurs into his phone.

“I’ve put music to some of your poems,” Jon says immediately, ignoring his question. Martin wants to cut in and tell him he’s only had the notebook for less than a week, but Jon continues. “It sounds good, really good. I was wondering if it’s alright with you that I play them at The Pink Lagoon sometime in the coming week?”

Sinking back into the pillows, Martin drags a hand down his face and pushes the giddiness at the words down. He clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s definitely alright. Can I ask which ones you’ve used?”

Jon lets out a breathy laugh, it’s tired but full of the same giddiness Martin is feeling. “Of course you can ask. They’re half yours. I, ah, forget the titles but there’s this one early on I really liked about meeting someone who has very nice eyes. I noticed that it’s a running theme of others as well, so, most of those. I can get the notes I have if you want to know precisely which ones?”

“That’s fine. I remember them,” there’s something very bizarre, he thinks, about having the person he is in love with commenting on the poetry inspired by him; unknowingly reading about the way he’s perceived by someone in love.

“You must’ve met someone amazing to have you write all of this.”

Martin is instantly in flames, burning through his veins. “Oh, uhm, I… Well, there’s was, uh, someone. Yeah.”

Jon takes a moment to reply, and when he does it’s gentle. “Is this someone still around?”

“... Yeah,” Martin admits, tone just as gentle. There’s something about the night that calls for honesty, he thinks, and paired with the fact that they’re not facing each other adds to it, makes it less of a reality. He doesn’t think he ever would admit to that speaking to Jon when his _very nice_ eyes are on him.

“Are you… together?”

He lets out a self deprecating laugh, drawing his knees to his chest. “God, no. I don’t think we’ll ever be.”

“Why is that?”

“... They’re not just attainable for me. You’ve read my poetry, Jon, I don’t think I’m even an option.” he doesn’t say how he thinks he never can be. Not him. He doesn’t deserve Jon.

“I don’t see how you couldn’t be. You’re,” Jon takes a deep breath. “wonderful. You’re great, Martin. They’d be a fool not to see that.”

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he feels the tears run down his cheeks. He hopes Jon can’t tell he’s purposely keeping his breathing quiet as he regulates it. “Okay.” he croaks, because he has to say something, but what _does_ one say to that when it comes from the person they wants to hear it from the most. His breath hitches and he bites down on the tiny sob that escapes his lips.

“Good lord. I’m so sorry, Martin.” Jon’s voice is low and Martin can’t tell whether it’s to bring comfort or if it’s because of the late hour. “I didn’t mean to upset you…”

“It’s fine,” he wipes his cheeks. “I’m fine,”

“I’m sorry,” Jon repeats.

There’s a lull in the conversation and Martin is acutely aware of how Jon likely can hear him trying to calm himself down. He’s ashamed to be this vulnerable around someone. He's perfectly aware he does quite a bit of crying around people, that’s never bothered him, but when it’s for a reason that directly involves him it makes him uncomfortable; forcing his own struggles upon others doesn’t feel right, downright selfish even; who is he to take, when he hasn’t earned it.

“Your poetry is beautiful.” Jon begins, still talking in that low tone. Martin hears him swallow. “I really like the ones about loving, but my favourite is the one where you talk about being loved. It’s very honest, I think, and that’s what I love about it. Being loved is hard when you don’t really see why that person picked you, and I, ah, I can relate. I’m sure I’ve read it so many times I can recite it from memory by now.” he laughs awkwardly at that. Martin can picture the sheepish face he’s probably making. Even through the tears it brings a smile to his face.

“Have you got a tune for it?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light. He almost succeeds.

Jon sighs and he hears fabric rustling on the other side of the line. “No, not yet. I don’t think I have anything already composed that will bring it justice, I’m still working on it. I do have some idea about the core melody, but it’s only half formed.”

“... Can I hear it?”

A pause, then, “Okay.”

When he sings the first few lines, it’s nearly a whisper and makes it Martin press his phone to his ear as if it would let him be closer to his voice. He thought he’d emptied all his tears but upon hearing those aching words coming from Jon a few more slip loose, this time out of love instead of sorrow. He doesn’t sing the whole poem, with it being one of his longer ones, but he sings the first two stanzas and that’s enough.

“As you can tell, I haven’t gotten very far with it,” he lets out a nervous chuckle. “... Martin?” he asks when he doesn’t get a response.

“I’m here, sorry. I’m just, it’s gorgeous, Jon. I love it.”

“Thanks…” silence settles between them again and Martin hears Jon’s breathing slow. For a moment, he thinks he’s fallen asleep, and the thought makes Martin relax against his own bed. For the first time tonight, he feels sleep creeping in on him and welcomes it. “Martin... “ Jon mumbles, muffled as if he’s pressed his face against his pillow. He sounds like he’s still wide awake.

“Yeah?” he murmurs sleepily. 

“Do you really think your feelings are unrequited?”

“Mhm,” he finds that his eyes are slipping closed.

“... If my suspicions are correct, they aren’t.”

Martin, too tired to properly process his words, hums. “How do you figure?”

“Because I…” he trails off. Clearing his throat, there’s a note of frustration in his voice when he speaks again. “I just know it."

“Sure, Jon.”

Martin feels himself drifting. Jon must take notice, as the next thing he says is a soft. “Good night, Martin.”

“G’night.”

The calls ends and the last thing Martin remembers before losing his battle against sleep is a text from Jon reading _see u at lagoon saturday?_ and replying with a _yeah_ accompanied by a star emoji.

* * *

Martin decidedly doesn’t think about their exchange, and when it inevitably comes to mind he only allows himself to replay their call until Jon starts singing and anything beyond that he shuts out. He’s already gotten his hopes up and by reading further into Jon’s words he’s bound for heartbreak. It had been fine, or at least less painful, when he’d just had a crush on Jon but those feelings had evolved into love, aching and so very real. There’s a voice in the back of his mind telling him to think about their interactions form an outside perspective and examine their relationship that way, but as he is prone to do, represses that voice as soon as it starts speaking; he doesn’t have room in his heart for that kind of longing.

He can tell Gerry knows something has happened, but he thankfully doesn’t push it.

“Oh, are we going on Saturday?” he asks when Martin announces his plans. “Great, I’ll have time to plan a killer outfit then,”

Martin rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you need days to plan that, you already know what goes well and what doesn’t in your wardrobe.”

Gerry shakes his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Oh, I’m not talking about me. I’m planning yours.” before Martin can say something Gerry continues, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. “You’re seeing Jon, right? Saturday is their busiest say so we have to make sure you stand out properly! But like, in a you way.”

Martin bites back a smile. “And how do you plan to make that happen, exactly?”

“Do you place your full trust in me?”

Sighing, mostly for show, Martin agrees. “Sure. I trust you.”

Gerry removes his hand and claps. “Fantastic!”

* * *

Saturday finally arrives and Martin finds himself with the same nervousness he’d carried the first week of his time at The Pink Lagoon. The outfit Gerry had picked out for him was loud indeed, but Martin once again admires how well Gerry knows him because he really does love it. His hair has gotten long enough for it to be put in a small ponytail, which Gerry made sure to do and let the rest naturally fall around his face. It looked oddly charming, Martin found, so he decided to keep it like that for the night.

He’s wearing a blue button up littered with simply designed roses, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and black skinny jeans. “Always cuff your jeans, Martin. We don’t want people thinking you’re straight.” Gerry had joked, but Martin is pretty sure he’s half serious seeing as he himself always makes sure to cuff his own. To top his outfit off, Gerry had loaned him some silver studs to put in his ears (he’d pierced them at seventeen, but hadn’t worn anything in them for the last couple of years. Luckily the holes hadn’t healed completely) and to complete his outfit he was instructed to wear his old, beaten up Doc Martens he rarely wore anymore.

He stops right outside of the doors to the venue, Gerry in tow. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door and is greeted by the familiar sounds of The Pink Lagoon.

“Aw, there’s no space at the bar.” Gerry notes with disappointment. “I think we’re just gonna have to hang out by the stage.” Martin nods, a little frantic. Gerry places a reassuring hand on his forearm. They make their way to the bar, Gerry getting a non alcoholic drink, this time white wine, and Martin going for an Irish Coffee.

“Not your usual then?” Tim raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Trying out something new tonight. Believe it or not, that’s my usual go to drink at other places.” Martin eases a little more into himself. He’s among friends, there’s no need to be nervous, he tells himself. He leans back and watches Gerry and Tim banter.

“Oh right,” Tim snaps his fingers. “Jon has something special planned tonight, I think, so he and Georgie will be playing a little earlier to let the other groups have time for their sets as well.” he shrugs. Martin gets the sense he’s talking more to him than to Gerry. 

“... Right. Thanks, Tim.” Martin says, eyeing him dubiously. Tim just smiles at him, wide and just a tad mischievous. Gerry laughs behind his hand, which earns him an eye-roll from Martin and a less suspicious grin from Tim. The latter shuts him up, to Martin’s satisfaction. They get their drinks and he thinks he spots Melanie at the front. He sees her wave him over and flashes her a smile. 

“Hey guys,” Basira greets. she’s wrapped up in Daisy’s arms, who’s resting her chin on her shoulder. They chat for a minute, exchanging pleasantries before letting the conversation flow naturally. Gerry is quick to comment on Daisy’s tattoos, flowery patterns coiling around her wrist up to her elbow. She doesn’t quite _beam_ , but it’s something close to it.

Tim really wasn’t kidding though, Martin finds when he sees Jon a little before half past seven, walking on stage with Georgie close behind. They’re talking animatedly and for a second Martin is afraid they’re fighting, but when Georgie barks out a laugh he breathes out in relief. He doesn’t know what he’d do if one of them were upset. Jon spots him almost immediately and waves, Martin feels his heart grow a few sizes too big in his chest at the shy smile that appears on his face. Jon… Hasn’t dressed up like usual. His hair is falling freely around his shoulders and he’s clad in a black t-shirt with a faded The Smiths print on it paired with washed out jeans. It’s a good look on him, Martin deems, the simple black eyeshadow and lip that accompanies his outfit is subtle and effortless. Martin feels a little overdressed and he can’t help but to compare it to the first time he saw Jon and thought himself dressed down. It makes the edges of his mouth curl upwards.

He doesn’t know when it happened, but the carefully crafted image of a detached musician in his mind has completely crumbled and been replaced with _Jon._ Jon, who writes beautiful and intricate songs without lyrics and has a difficult time singing in front of people; who drinks his coffee with too much sugar and always coordinates his outfit with his makeup.

Martin lightly claps his hands to the sides of his face in an effort to stop thinking so intimately about Jon. “Get yourself together,” he mumbles to himself. He attempts to rejoin the ongoing conversation, they’re talking about some village in Scotland Daisy used to visit as a child, but finds that watching Jon setting up his mic and plugging in his guitar isn’t a bad view, especially not when he meets his eyes from time to time, same shy smile playing at his lips. At one point he sees Georgie affectionately roll her eyes at him.

“Okay, everyone!” Sasha says into the microphone when they’ve finished setting everything up. “Give it up for Georgie and Jon!” she gives both of them thumbs up before leaving the stage.

Georgie shoots Jon a smile and Martin sees her count down rather than hears it. They start with covers, eventually introducing original songs. Jon is singing a few lines here and there, accompanying her on the chorus, and it’s really good. Georgie gets behind the piano at the side of the stage for a few songs, but not before telling a story about having started learning it a few months ago and not yet being able to sing at the same time if she still wants it to sound good. She laughs about it, but it leaves Martin very impressed because she plays like she has more experience than that.

Before he knows it, their set is finished and Georgie leaves the stage to come stand with them to watch Jon. He is awkward, as always, but Martin notices the nervous fidget to his fingers aren’t present this time. He knows it’s silly to be proud over something someone else has achieved entirely without him, but he is.

“This is for someone who told me once they love this song. Uh, ‘April Come She Will’ _,_ by Simon and Garfunkel.” he half mumbles the first sentence out of embarrassment and Martin thinks it’s very sweet. He presses his lips together to suppress a smile. He knows he has mentioned his love for the duo quite a few times, and second to ‘Kathy’s Song’ it’s his favourite. He pushes away any thought that it’s for him though, if it isn’t he doesn’t want to tell himself something like this that makes his heart ache.

As he sings, Martin finds himself mouthing the words, and towards the end he catches Jon looking. For a moment, he feels like the world stops around them and the only sound he heard is Jon singing to him. The words, “ _A love once new has now grown old”_ pierces something in him and before he knows it the song ends. He almost forgets to clap, but does so when he feels Gerry’s arm move against his.

“As you all probably can tell from our earlier sets, me and Georgie both are very bad at naming our songs. Luckily, person whose poetry these next songs are based on has already named them.” he laughs lightly and Martin feels his heart jump up into his throat. “His name is Martin K. Blackwood. I’ve just put music to his words. The first one up is called, ah, ‘We Aren’t Born To Sink’.”

In the pause that follows the crowd erupts into cheers and Martin can feel Gerry’s eyes on him. He starts to say something but is interrupted by Jon strumming his guitar, the familiar start of the sorrowful tune he’d played in front of Martin. He had thought it sounded beautiful two weeks ago, but now Martin can tell it wasn’t finished at all when he last heard. The core tune is the same, but he’s changed the way he plucks the strings, almost as if to tailor it to Martin’s poetry.

He feels like his breath is knocked out of him. Jon sings his words, words that _Martin_ wrote, and something settles in his chest. He doesn’t cry, lord knows he’s done that enough lately, but there is unshed tears in his eyes that he’s certain is visible to anyone looking.

Jon moves onto the next song and Martin finds that the lyrics all fit what he remembers writing after having met Jon, most about those “very nice” eyes as he had put it. When his eyes aren’t closed, which they often are when he’s playing live, they’re locked with Martin’s, who can’t bring himself to look away. It’s strangely intimate even if there are both people and the height different of a stage between them.

He doesn’t cry and he’s a little impressed with himself that he hasn’t yet, but then Jon lets go of his guitar to cradle the microphone and says “The lyrics is from another poem by Martin and,” he looks Martin straight in the eye. “this one’s for you.” and then he _sings_. It’s the one about being loved, the one Jon admitted having memorised, and it sounds so beautiful that Martin finally bursts. Someone next to him puts an arm around him upon realising that it’s Gerry, he leans into him. There’s another hand rubbing at his back that turns out to be Georgie. Her face is soft and he thinks he might break if he looks at her too long, so he turns his attention back to Jon. His eyes are closed again, voice loud and clear as silence has fallen over the room, and his expression is almost serene; the poet in Martin thinks that love looks good on him.

The song is over as quickly as it starts and Jon says his thanks to the audience. Martin stands, frozen, and watches him walk off the stage. Someone pushes him gently towards the door that leads backstage, he doesn’t bother looking who this time, and he stumbles his way there, legs unsteady and mind racing. Jon exits just as he reaches it, hand caught midway in the air on its way to grasp the handle. Jon takes it with both of his hands.

“Hey,” he says and Martin can tell that he’s blushing, even in this light.

“Hey,” he says back dumbly. Jon rubs his knuckles with his thumb and Martin’s other hand comes to rest upon his cheek. “I liked your songs,”

Jon smiles and the room shrinks until all he sees is Jon. “Thanks. I liked your lyrics,”

There’s a rush of something warm, it fires through his veins and settles in his belly and for once his mind is quiet. He leans in slowly and Jon meets his lips halfway. They break apart a few seconds later and Jon pulls him into a hug. His head comes to rest against Martin’s chest and he mumbles something into it he can’t quite hear.

“Pardon?” Martin murmurs into his hair. He distantly wonders if Jon can hear his heart beating so fast he thinks it’ll beat out of his chest.

“Wouldyouliketobemyboyfriend,” he repeats it in one breath. Martin takes a moment to process his words before he feels his face heat up.

He pulls away, just barely, to look Jon in the face. His eyes are wide and bright and Martin thinks he can never find enough words to describe them. “Yes, Jonathan Sims,” he says, a little playfully. He doesn’t think about how this is the first time he’s uttered his whole name. “I’d love to be your boyfriend.” the lines in Jon’s face softens and he leans in again.

Martin is endlessly grateful to have stumbled into The Pink Lagoon all those months ago and, for once, all of him can’t wait to see what the future holds.

**Author's Note:**

> finally finished! this was supposed to be a cute short thing that turned into a monster. i'm kind of proud of it though!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr, screaming about tma here: https://mx-wayne.tumblr.com/
> 
> i kind of love this au so expect more things from it! i have some ideas about a gerry centric one,,,


End file.
